The Cough
by Anowen18
Summary: Little Sherlock is sick and Mycroft is the only one around. If he can tolerate his brother that long. Written for a prompt from a friend.


THE COUGH

Mycroft Holmes sighed as his little brother burst cheerfully through the back door. He was late, and soaked to the skin from the pouring rain that had been keeping most folk inside for the past two hours, and had probably been out poking at some dead animal he had found in the grass. Sherlock carefully shut the door, and bounded up the stairs to his room. Mycroft would never understand Sherlock's fascination with legwork. Shaking his head, he turned back to his book.

It was about two days later when Mycroft heard the first cough. It was a trifling sound, not more than the clearing of a throat, really. He paid it no mind, and neither did Sherlock.

Of course, over the next few days, Mycroft heard considerably more of his younger brother's hacking. He would be curled in a chair reading a book, or finishing his homework at the table, when Sherlock would dash in the door with frightened eyes. Usually this meant he had narrowly avoided the playground bullies. These times were no different, save that as soon as Sherlock had thrown the bolt and locked the door, he would double over coughing.

By now, Mycroft was well aware of his little brother's stubborn streak, and mostly just kept his head down and his attention focused on whatever he was doing. Sherlock would always right himself, take up whatever books or experiments he has dragged home, and disappear into his room. But the usually silent Sherlock could be heard coughing upstairs with relative clarity.

Not long afterwards, Sherlock staggered in the door late, bruised, and wheezing. This time Mycroft couldn't help himself.

"Sherlock? What on Earth?" Mycroft pushed his chair back from the table and rose.

"I couldn't get away quick enough. I'm always quick enough." Sherlock's voice was confused and raucous.

"You sound horrible. Are you sure you're all right?" Sherlock pushed past his brother and lurched up the stairs. Mycroft picked up his sodden Wellies and placed them on the mat by the door.

_And there's your answer, Mycroft,_ he thought to himself. _Ask a stupid question, as I believe the saying goes. _He sat back down in his chair and listened for his brother, who usually made a great deal of noise during whatever experiment he had set up at the time. It was quiet except for the occasional cough.

It was around 6 o'clock when their mother arrived home, sweeping in the door happily and quickly retreating to her room upstairs. From the careless way her case was thrown to the floor, and the fact that she had not removed her sunglasses and shoes as was her habit indicated that she was not planning on doing her work before tomorrow, and that something had her very excited indeed.

Mycroft hesitantly opened the case, hoping to find another sign as to what was going on. He shut it guiltily when his mother dashed down the steps again, leaving her shoes on the mat and not noticing Sherlock's dirty footprints on the kitchen floor.

"I have wonderful news, Mycroft!" She said, scooping up her case and placing it on the table. She smiled at her eldest son. "But then, you knew that."

"A vacation, Mummy? Where? Isn't this rather sudden?"

"Adelaide has invited me to go to America with her! I'd told her once I'd never been, and she managed to persuade my administrator to allow me to go when her secretary fell ill this afternoon." She beamed eagerly. "I leave tomorrow morning. I'll just go and tell Sherlock."

Mycroft winced. Sherlock was not likely to take it well. If there was one thing he hated, it was change. Especially change he couldn't control. He didn't like to have to react, he preferred to be the one acting in the first place. But there was no telling that to their mother.

Listening apprehensively, Mycroft waited for the inevitable tantrum. It never came. Instead, the voices upstairs remained civil and excited. _I must be missing something,_ thought Mycroft._ Is Sherlock going along?_ He was briefly hurt at the prospect of being left behind.

At last, their mother came and set her suitcase by the stairs. One of the maids had helped her to pack and she was done fairly early. Sherlock did not come down to supper that evening, assuring them that he wasn't hungry and had something that he really should finish, anyway. He clearly was not going with, and was choosing to express his displeasure that their mother was going at all by staying in his room without a sound.

Finally, Mycroft became aware of the low sound of a violin playing upstairs. This usually boded ill for the rest of the family. Reluctantly, Mycroft climbed the stairs and paused outside the door, trying to gauge his little brother's mood. The music was slow, and a tad mournful. Preparing himself mentally and physically, he knocked on the door.

"Go away, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, you're being childish. At least pretend, for Mummy's sake." Mycroft admonished.

"I already have." Sherlock coughed and the violin stopped. Hesitantly, Mycroft opened the door.

Sherlock was curled in his favorite chair by the window, gazing out and absently plucking the strings of his violin.

"Mummy will be back within the week. Sherlock, you can't expect her not to go. She hasn't had a vacation since Father died."

"I can and do. What about us?" Sherlock pouted, setting his violin back in it's case.

"I am old enough to look after the both of us." Mycroft sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, observing the lawn below. "And there's always the hired help."

"Unreliable."

"Sherlock."

"Fine." Sherlock pointedly looked away and coughed long and hard. Mycroft tilted his head and studied his little brother.

"I'll get the cough medicine, then." Sherlock made a face.

"I'm fine. Don't you dare try and make me drink that disgusting stuff."

Mycroft sighed. _You'll regret this later, Sherlock._ Instead of saying as much, he crossed the room to the door once again. "Do try and make an appearance tomorrow, for Mummy's sake."

Sherlock nodded, coughing, but it was impossible to tell if he would obey his brother.

"Be good, both of you. Sherlock, please refrain from bringing dead animals inside, and no experiments in the house, not while I'm away. Mycroft, if he does set the place on fire while I'm gone, the fire extinguisher is under the sink in the kitchen. I love you both, and I promise to bring you each something." Their mother waved from the window of the cab and drove away.

School was boring, as usual, and apart from rescuing Sherlock from the six boys who had chased him up a tree at noon recess, there was little that was different. Still, Mycroft was looking forward to a quiet evening at home.

It turned out that he was not to have his quiet evening after all. The silence was broken every few minutes by the sound of raucous coughing from the other room. Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was being stubborn and refusing anything that Mycroft had offered. Irritated, he shut his book and went outside to find some peace.

After a few minutes, Sherlock joined him. Mycroft was about to chase him off when his brother's hand touched his shoulder. He looked up, a sharp rebuke at the ready. Sherlock stood to one side, bleary-eyed and with a book clutched in his arms. He held it out to Mycroft hopefully.

"Read to me?" Despite himself, Mycroft smiled, took the book and led Sherlock back inside.

"Of course."

Mycroft couldn't stand it any longer. Sherlock had been coughing for over two hours, almost without stopping. Groaning, he rolled out of his warm bed and walked sleepily down the stairs to fetch the child a glass of water.

He winced in sympathy as a particularly violent coughing fit seized his younger brother, leaving him out of breath as Mycroft entered the room.

"Sherlock, please. Lay back and drink this." He pleaded. Sherlock eyed him vacantly. He tried to thank him, but no sound came from his abused throat. "Shush. Don't try to talk. Just go to sleep, Sherlock, please." To Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock nodded weakly, setting off a spasm of coughing.

Unable to help himself, Mycroft closed his arms around his brother as he shook. Tears streamed down Sherlock's face as the coughing finally subsided. Mycroft ran his fingers through his brother's thick, dark curls, trying to offer what little comfort he could.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock clutched at his Mycroft's nightshirt and wailed, or rather, tried to. It came out as something between a croak and a whimper.

"Shh, it's all right. Sherlock, calm down." Mycroft begged, he was tired and he wanted to return to his room. Sherlock buried his face in his brother's nightshirt, his miserable sobbing interrupted only by that horrid cough.

Mycroft glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight and they had school in the morning. Well, he did, anyway. Sherlock wouldn't be able to go. He tightened his hold on his brother as the coughing began again, so hard that Sherlock seemed to stop breathing. Patiently, Mycroft waited for it to pass.

"This wouldn't be so bad if you would agree to take the medicine." He suggested gently, stroking his brother's hair.

"Makes my head feel funny." Sherlock rasped.

"You'll be asleep. And your throat won't hurt anymore." His brother nodded unhappily, but began coughing again when he attempted to speak. They wracked his small body far longer than any had before, until Mycroft began to worry. "Sherlock? Here, sit up. Easy, Sherlock, you're all right." He reassured him, more confidently than he felt.

After what seemed like ages, Sherlock slumped against his brother, exhausted and gasping.

"I'll take the medicine, Mycroft." He whimpered. Mycroft wiped the tears from the boy's face and smiled.

"There, now. I'll just go and get it, shall I?" He stood and returned to the kitchen. After some searching, he located the bottle and a clean spoon. Wearily, he climbed the stairs for the second time that night and walked into his brother's room. "Here. And I do expect you to drink it all." Mycroft told Sherlock sternly, pouring out a dose of the liquid.

Sherlock took it without complaint, he was clearly well past done in. He winced as he swallowed, and broke out coughing again.

Sighing deeply, Mycroft slid into bed alongside his brother, sitting against the headboard and drawing Sherlock into his lap.

He was never sure how long he sat there, but gradually Sherlock's coughing fits became fewer and farther between. Eventually, his ragged breathing deepened altogether. Mycroft glanced down tiredly to see his little brother had finally fallen asleep. He fondly ruffled the boy's hair and laid his head back against the wall, drifting off to sleep himself soon after.

END


End file.
